


Our Greatest Glory

by Bookkbaby



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Season/Series 09, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Asexual Castiel, Asexual Character, Asexuality, Canon-Typical Violence, Depression, Eventual Happy Ending, Fluff, Homelessness, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, M/M, Mutual Pining, Original Character(s), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Other: See Story Notes, Pining, Romance, Slow Build, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-01
Updated: 2015-05-22
Packaged: 2018-03-26 13:28:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3852577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bookkbaby/pseuds/Bookkbaby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Our greatest glory is not in never falling, but in rising every time we fall." - Confucius</p><p>Castiel struggles with humanity. Dean struggles with Castiel.</p><p>Sometimes, redemption is found in unlikely places, with unlikely allies, but Team Free Will is sure of one thing: it all comes down to the third ingredient in Metatron's spell.</p><p>(Canon divergent from 8.23)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> ADDITIONAL WARNING: In this chapter, someone briefly attempts to take advantage of a homeless (and oblivious) Cas. There is no actual sexual assault, but it is brought up.

_His wings are burning._

_He's burning, Heaven is aflame, and it's all crashing down, down..._

_His brothers, his sisters, his siblings, all burning. They're alight and they fall like stars, beautiful and terrible. Their Grace is stripped from them, siphoned back into Heaven and leaving its children defenseless._

_The bodies continue to fall, fall..._

_They hit the ground and leave impressions of their scorched wings on green, green grass. He walks among them, their God, their judge, their executioner, and the bodies pile up higher around him._

_The towering corpses collapse inwards and he's sucked down into the lake, coughing and choking, covered in blood. A hand reaches down for him and yanks him to the surface._

_It's Dean, bleeding and broken, and Castiel's hands are covered in blood, his knuckles bruised._

_"What have you done?" Dean demands, blood spilling from between his lips. "What have you done?!"_

_Cas has no air to speak, but he tries-_

"Johnny!"

Castiel wakes with a start and a gasp, eyes momentarily wide and unseeing at the night sky above him. The hand on his shoulder stops shaking him, but doesn't move.

"Johnny?"

Cas sits up and turns towards the person who had awoken him, wincing as his back complains about his concrete bed. The flimsy, damp cardboard beneath him does little to soften the pavement, or trap in heat.

"Thank you, Jordan," Cas says.

Jordan is a young man, only nineteen, but his brown eyes reflect an older kind of wisdom. His blond hair is kept short in messy chunks with a pocketknife, and his layers of clothes are loose but well-kept, given his circumstances.

Cas had met him on his second night in Denver.

_One Week Ago_

The clouds were heavy with rain. Castiel kept an uneasy eye on them, still shivering from the effects of last night's storm. The day's humidity meant that his clothes still felt damp, from his coat to the navy blue hoodie, through the green plaid flannel and the thin black Tshirt he'd discovered in the Lost & Found bin at a small laundromat near where he'd Fallen. He'd had to discard his old suit, though he'd been unable to bear parting with his trenchcoat.

If nothing else, it reminded him that once upon a time, Dean had had faith in him. It didn't hurt that the coat was an extra layer of protection from the elements, thin though it was.

The shelter nearby was full, and Cas despaired of finding somewhere warm and dry to sleep tonight. 

A car rolled up to the curb next to where Cas was walking. Cas paid it no mind, but it crawled along next to him and the window rolled down. Confused, he stopped and glanced over.

There was a woman in the driver's seat, smiling in a way that made him uneasy for no reason he could quite discern. It reminded him vaguely of Meg, all sharp edges.

"Hey, you looking for a place to stay tonight?" the woman asked him. Castiel thought for a moment.

"Yes," he said hesitantly. The woman's smile widened.

"I've got a bed," she said. "And I'll buy you dinner. How's that sound?"

As if on cue, Castiel's stomach gurgled. He put a hand over his belly as if hoping that would fill the emptiness. When he'd Fallen, he'd had little money in his pockets, and it hadn't lasted beyond his first meal as a human. He'd been searching for dropped change and bills ever since, but the Twix bar he'd bought from a vending machine earlier that day hadn't stretched far.

He needed food. Water was easy enough to find, even if the water fountains in the park tended to taste a bit brackish.

Still, he hesitated. The loss of his powers meant it was impossible to see her soul; for all he knew, she could be one of his fallen siblings in disguise. She could be a demon.

But if she was just a human and meant him no ill... unbidden, he remembered Daphne. She'd taken him in and clothed him and given him her spare room to sleep in, spreading the story about being his wife only when her neighbors started asking questions about the amnesiac with no family.

Overhead, thunder rumbled.

Hesitantly, Cas stepped forward.

"Hey!"

The voice was high, almost feminine, and furious. Cas turned towards the sound, surprised. A blond man was storming out of the nearby alleyway, headed directly for the car.

The woman in the driver's seat recoiled, turned, and sped off. The man stopped next to Cas, chest heaving with emotion, as he watched the car go.

After a moment, with the car truly out of sight, the man turned to Cas. Up close, Cas could see that the man was likely young; he had no facial hair at all, not even a hint of stubble.

"Sorry," the young man said in a way that indicated he wasn't sorry in the least. He crossed his arms over his chest. "But if you're hooking, don't do it here. That's what Fifth Street is for, so all the scumbags who-"

"Hooking?" Cas said, bewildered. The man's expression went surprised, then soft and cautious.

"Are you telling me you weren't?" he asked. Cas frowned.

"I'm not sure I know what you mean," he said. The man stared at Cas for a moment, stunned, then closed his eyes with what looked like relief.

"Thank fucking God I recognized her car," he said. He reached out and gave Cas a companionable slap on the shoulder. "Look, people who drive up in nice cars and offer you food or a place to sleep? Don't trust them. They're going to expect you to pay for it."

"But I have no money," Cas said. The other man shook his head.

"They're not looking for money," he said darkly.

"But I don't-" Cas started. His voice cut off abruptly as he realized why the woman in the car's smile had seemed so reminiscent of Meg's, what that common thread running through it had been. "Oh."

"Yeah," the man agreed. He patted Cas on the shoulder one more time. "Just be careful, ok?"

He turned to go. Cas reached out and grabbed his shoulder. The man tensed, one hand coming up defensively, but Cas hardly noticed.

"Thank you," Cas said earnestly. "I didn't realize. I'll be more careful."

The other man relaxed and gently lifted Cas's hand off his shoulder.

"It's no problem, buddy," he said. He turned to leave once more, but paused. He looked back at Cas. "You haven't been on the street long, have you?"  
Cas glanced down.

"Four days," he said. It had taken him some time to reach Denver, though at least he'd been fortunate enough to find someone willing to drive him part of the way.

The other man was quiet for a moment, then he sighed and fully turned to face Cas. He stuck out his hand.

"I'm Jordan," he said. Cas reached to shake Jordan's hand and abruptly realized that he'd never come up with an alias.

His mind worked quickly. His real name was too dangerous to give, too easy to track him by. He'd stolen too much from Jimmy already, down to the body that was now truly Castiel's and Castiel's alone, taking his name seemed... ungrateful. He discarded the idea of using 'Clarence' or 'Emmanuel', too many memories, good and bad, bound up in those names.

Jordan waited, suspicion narrowing his eyes, so Castiel blurted out the first name that came to mind.

"I'm John," he said. Like the Apostle, brother of James, beloved of his Lord. Like the Winchester patriarch, the man who should have safeguarded his sons but failed. Like the nameless men whose unclaimed bodies rested in morgues and hospital beds.

Of the three, Castiel didn't know which he'd named himself for.

_Present_

Cas clears his throat.

"I hope I didn't wake you."

Jordan shrugs as though waking him doesn't really matter. However, instead of going back to his own pallet on the other side of the small 'urban cave' (a hidden area beneath a bridge for a four-lane road), Jordan hesitates.

"You said his name again in your sleep," he says, gently probing. Cas sighs softly and closes his eyes, turning his head away. "You gonna tell me about 'Dean'?"

Cas shakes his head.

"It's... difficult," Cas says defensively. Jordan sighs.

"I'm not going to tell you what to do, but I still think you should call him," Jordan says. He turns to go back to bed. "After all, you did say he _wants_  you back with him, so fucking go."

Cas can hear the bitterness in Jordan's voice, old but still sharp. He winces in sympathy and shame.

"I'm sorry, but I can't," Cas says, voice barely above a whisper. The sound carries just enough to reach Jordan, who is quiet for a moment.

"I've met a few men like you," Jordan says, settling himself on his mattress of cardboard and a few old newspapers. "Guys who hit hard times and were too ashamed to go back to their wives or families."

"It's not-" Cas begins.

"Isn't it?" Jordan asks, question pointed and disbelieving. 

Cas is quiet for a moment.

"It's better this way," he says. Jordan lets out a gust of air, aggravated.

"Whatever, man. 'Night."

Cas glances over, but Jordan's back is pointedly towards him as Jordan makes himelf comfortable on his bed. Cas looks away.

He's learned bits and pieces about Jordan's life during the week he'd spent in the young man's company, trying to figure out how to be human as well as homeless.

He's learned that hunger hurt, that thirst was terrible, and that his mouth tasted awful in the mornings if he forgot to brush his teeth the night before. He's learned the contrast between clean skin and dirt; not the type he'd been covered in fresh out of Purgatory, but the kind that simply built up after a day or two as a human, sweat and dust rather than mud.

He's learned not to stare at passers-by, since it made people uncomfortable and more likely to avoid him instead of drop their spare change into his cup. He's learned where the best places in the city were to sit silently, places where the cops were friendly enough to vagrants and the pedestrians kind. He's learned which places sometimes had 'suspended coffee' for those who couldn't afford the drink, and which churches had free meals. He'd learned what time was best to head to the shelter for a shower and possibly some toiletries, where the public bathrooms were.

He's learned that Jordan had been nearly eighteen when he'd been kicked out of doors for refusing to play at being the daughter his parents had always believed him to be. He'd learned of the young man's difficulties in securing employment, and that a part-time minimum-wage job couldn't keep you off the street for long when you had no savings and no family support.

Jordan couldn't return home. Cas knew the feeling, even if Heaven had stopped feeling like 'home' a long time ago. Cas had a place he could return to, a place he might even be welcomed, if his last call to Dean was anything to judge by.

Just after he'd Fallen, with the last of his dying phone battery, he'd called Dean to let him know what had happened. He'd let Dean know of Metatron's betrayal, the Fall of Heaven, and Castiel's unwitting, unwilling role.

Dean had told him to haul ass to the bunker, that they could fix this together, but Castiel knew better. Everything he touched ended up damaged, anything he attempted ended in catastrophic failure.

And now, he had no doubt his Fallen siblings hunted him. Best to keep moving, a nameless, faceless nobody, who could not harm anyone anymore. Before long, he'd have to leave this place, too, lest he bring Jordan into this mess.

He glances over again, making sure that Jordan isn't watching, then pulls up the sleeves on his left arm to expose his wrist and half his forearm. The sigils written there are starting to fade, so he reaches into his coat pocket for his Sharpie.

It's not an elegant solution, but it works for now. As a human, he was vulnerable to all sorts of dangers he hadn't needed to worry about as an angel; possession, for one thing. Being found and cornered by his siblings, for another. He'd purchased the Sharpie with coins he'd found on the road and had scribbled Enochian on his arm. There, the marks would be easy to conceal and easy to re-draw if necessary.

A tattoo would have been ideal, but was currently far beyond his means. He checked his sigils nightly, and sometimes during the day when he could find privacy, especially if the day had been damp.

Assured that he was both still hidden from angelic sight, and safe from possession, he caps the marker quietly and waits patiently for the ink to dry completely.

As he waits, he tries not to let his thoughts wander. He tries not to worry about Sam, as his brief phone call with Dean those days ago had revealed little of the younger Winchester's condition. He tries not to think about his Fallen brothers and sisters, about all the siblings with and without bodies who fell to Earth cursing his name. If he thinks of them, the guilt will crush him. He tries not to think about his own uncertain future, the days and weeks and _decades_  ahead stuck in a frail, decaying body, alone.

Most of all, he tries not to think about Dean. He tries not to think of Dean's eyes, green and bright and _warm_. He tries not to think of Dean's freckles, the ones Castiel himself had so painstakingly painted back onto Dean's skin. He tries not to think of Dean's lips curved into a smile, or his hands, gun-callused and warm.

He tries not to think of Dean's heart, so burdened from so young an age, weighing heavier and heavier with every loss.

He tries not to think of _Dean_  and what Dean is doing now.

He fails.

* * *

 

Dean's body moves on automatic.

Bread, that whole grain crap Sam loves. Mayo. Mustard. Tomato. Turkey and ham. Swiss cheese, if they've got it (and they do, Dean's been keeping the refrigerator stocked). Lettuce. Bread again.

Rinse. Repeat.

Take the knife, slice corner to corner. Place each half sandwich on a tray. Grab the plates with the napkins stacked on top.

Don't think.

It's not easy to _not think_. Hard as Dean tries, the thoughts still creep in, especially late at night when he's alone in bed. Maybe it's the absence next to him he can feel like a physical thing, sometimes, or the quiet. At night, when it's just himself and there's no research to do, no food to prepare, no dishes to clean... the silence in the bunker feels like a physical weight.

The room across the hall feels disturbingly empty, like whatever is behind the door is more sinister than a simple vacancy. A black hole, maybe.

Dean doesn't think about the room across the hall, the one with navy sheets he himself picked out and laundered fresh a week ago. He doesn't think about the new, empty hangers hanging in the closet. He doesn't think about the small, cheap bookcase he found at the thrift store, or the dog-eared paperbacks from his own collection he quietly left there. He doesn't think about the recently dust-free nooks and crannies.

He doesn't think how those same nooks and crannies are gathering dust once more.

Instead, Dean tries to think about what to make for breakfast. Lunch. Dinner. He concentrates his thoughts on Sam slowly but surely getting better with every passing day.

He thinks about Kevin and his slow progress with the angel tablet. Maybe it will have information on reversing the spell that caused the angels to Fall, maybe it won't, but either way it'll be _something_  more than they've been able to find in the books left behind by the Men of Letters.

He thinks about the angels, sometimes, and hunting. Sometimes, he longs for the simplicity of a blade in his hand and an enemy he can kill. He wants the kind of demons he can fight and kill, not the kind that whisper to him inside his own head.

Dean pauses for a second and looks at the platter of sandwiches he's assembled.

He's got two for Sam, since Sam's still regaining his energy after the trials and eating like a horse. He has one for Kevin, two for himself, and one for someone who isn't here yet.

An extra, he means an extra. He certainly didn't make it for Crowley who, despite having been almost turned human, never quite made it and isn't human enough to require feeding. Thank... well, not God, but _someone_  for small favors.

Dean checks his cell phone. No missed calls, no new texts. His thumb hovers over the icon that will bring up the keypad, but he hesitates and the touchscreen goes dark. He shoves the phone back into his pocket and picks up the tray of sandwiches.

It has been eleven days.

Dean tries not to count them.

 


	2. Chapter 2

> Chapter 2.
> 
> Chapter 1 is HERE, along with warnings

The alleyway is dirty and cast in shadows from the fading sunlight. There are bits of trash, blown in here by the breeze, but overall Cas has seen worse.

Castiel carefully counts out his earnings for the day, feeling mildly pleased with himself. There is little space for shame, so he ignores the feeble stirrings of it.

He's no longer a proud warrior of Heaven. He can't afford to be ashamed of this method of earning his bread.

All told, he has perhaps seventy dollars to his name now. The change he keeps in a plastic baggie rescued from someone else's sandwich, tucked away inside the backpack he'd gotten from Goodwill at Jordan's insistence. He has a second pair of jeans courtesy of that trip as well, and two new shirts so he has something to wear on laundry day.

* * *

 

He keeps the bills tucked away in his jeans pocket, stuffed all the way to the bottom. They feel safer there, even though his backpack is always with him. Perhaps a few more days, and he'll have enough money to buy a bus ticket going anywhere, with some left over for food and drink. In any case, he can't very well stay here. He's too close to Kansas, and though he knows there's no more danger of running into Dean in Denver than in, say, New York, the proximity worries him.

Cas could get on a bus and be in Kearney, Nebraska in six hours. From there, it's only a day and a half's walk to the bunker. Cas isn't sure he's strong enough to resist the temptation. After all, he already knows that the bus ticket would cost him almost $100 and that Kearney is the closest bus stop to Lebanon, despite it being across the state line. He already knows the route he would need to walk from Kearney to reach home.

No, not 'home'. The bunker. He can't call it by any other name, even if the ache in his chest feels like homesickness.

If that ache has more to do with green eyes and caring hands than stone walls and enough warding to make the place a fortress, Cas tries not to dwell on that.

He scratches at his cheek absently, feeling the scrape of something that is more approaching a full beard than simple stubble. Perhaps he should buy himself a razor; Jordan had helped him pick out his other toiletries the day after they'd met, but razors had not been on the list of necessities.

Cas hears footsteps and looks up, hand straying casually to the angel blade he keeps hidden inside his coat. It's only Jordan. Cas relaxes.

Jordan sits down beside Cas, not minding about the dirty ground of the alleyway, and leans up against the faded red brick of the building. He smiles at Cas, looking pleased as punch with himself.

"You'll never guess what I got today, Johnny," Jordan says.

"I'm sure I won't," Cas replies, which is only the truth. Jordan just shakes his head fondly and digs into the front pocket of his hoodie for something. He produces a red card with a stylized chili pepper on it. Cas frowns at it for a moment.

"Chili's gift card for $30," Jordan says proudly. "Dinner tonight is on me."

Cas smiles, heart warm but wistful. He'll miss this place when he leaves. He's found a friend in Jordan, and he's had precious few of those. Most of them are dead, many by his hand, and Cas looks away from Jordan to hide the sudden wave of grief that rises up.

"Johnny?"

Cas shakes his head.

"I'm fine," he lies. Jordan studies him for a moment more, than nods slowly.

"Sure," he says. He waves the gift card. "You up for a little trip?"

Cas is grateful for the change in topic and nods even though he doesn't want to get up, especially for something that sounds as unappetizing as food. He's not hungry, though he's vaguely aware that he probably should be. Another aspect of humanity to get used to, he supposes. Knowing when your body needs something even though it refuses to signal you. He had to make taking care of this body a priority, now that he was trapped inside of it.

He stands, leaning heavily against the wall when his head swims at the motion. Jordan quickly stands up next to him and puts a hand on his shoulder to steady him.

"Hey, you all right?"

Cas nods again.

"I'm fine," Cas repeats. 'Just adjusting to humanity', he doesn't say. Adjusting to his new weaknesses, the new aches and pains, the fatigue that's been heavy in his limbs all day. Worse than usual, he thinks, though he has little basis for comparison. Adjusting to needing food and water, to moving only as quickly as his feet can carry him instead of moving fast as thought.

He supposes he'll be 'adjusting' for a long time yet.

Jordan looks to the mouth of the alley.

"Let's go, then."

* * *

 

  
The library in the bunker is quiet, save the scratch of graphite on paper and the whisper of pages turning. Dean's only half paying attention to the dusty tome in front of him. The book is only tangentially related to angels, anyway, and so far there's been absolutely nothing about Grace or spells or any of that crap.

Sam, at least, is out of bed and there's color back in his cheeks. He's frowning and taking notes on a different book, one so old there's no title across the front. Kevin sits across from Dean, head bent over the angel tablet and fingers tracing the runes. He writes much more slowly than Sam does, sometimes muttering to himself and scratching pieces of the translation out. On the far side of the table is a tall stack of books, some with bookmarks in them, most without, and next to Sam's elbow is a much, much smaller stack of books.

Dean sighs and closes his book. He banishes it to the far side of the table with the rest of the rejects and reaches for a new one.

His phone suddenly vibrates. Against his will, Dean's heart leaps and he snatches his phone from the table.

Sam and Kevin both perk up, momentarily distracted from research as Dean swipes his thumb over the lock screen.

It's a text from Charlie.

Dean's shoulders droop, just a little, but it's the silent signal Sam and Kevin had been watching for. Kevin looks back down at the tablet while Sam watches Dean for a moment more, sympathy in his eyes.

Dean does his best to ignore his little brother as he opens up Charlie's text.

Charlie: any luck on your end?

Dean considers just putting the phone down and going to get himself a beer instead. Or whiskey. Anything so he doesn't have to think about the snail-like pace of their progress. Instead, he texts back.

Dean: no. no luck by you either?

He doesn't need to ask. He already knows Charlie's search has turned up nothing. She promised she'd call immediately, and though Dean hadn't let on, she was smart enough to know what her quiet reassurances had meant.

They would find him and bring him home. Charlie had been so certain just a few days ago.

The phone buzzes in his hand.

Charlie: no john doe matching his description from the mississippi to the west coast. :(

Dean swallows and ignores Sam's eyes on him. He toys with his phone for a moment, then texts back.

Dean: try to the east

Cas isn't there, Dean already knows. He can't be, not if he landed in Colorado Springs like he'd said. Cas has no reason to venture any further east than Kansas, but hey, life is fucked up that way. Dean can't just ignore the possibility.

He tries not to think about the fact that if Charlie finds him, it might be in the records of a morgue rather than a hospital.

Charlie texts again.

Charlie: sure thing, boss

Dean puts his phone aside and looks up. Sam is still looking at him.

"What?" Dean bites out, grabbing a new book to research with.

"Charlie hasn't found anything?" Sam asks. Dean busies himself with the book, looking down at it rather than Sam's drawn, too-cautious face. Dean grunts.

"Said she'd call when she does," he says. He flips the pages, hoping Sam will get the hint and drop it, but to his displeasure, Sam speaks again.

"Dean-"

Dean abruptly stands up.

"I'm getting a beer. Want anything?" He directs the question more at Kevin than at Sam, who is still regarding Dean with sympathy.

Dean doesn't need his  _fucking_  sympathy. He's fine. Everything is fine. Cas has fucked off God-knows-where, but that's hardly new and unusual for him, isn't it?

When they find that son of a bitch alive and well, Dean's going to punch him. For the shit with Metatron, Naomi, Purgatory, for  _everything, damnit_ , then they'll bring him back to the bunker and figure this crap out. Cas will be contrite, like a kicked puppy, and Dean will forgive him, because that's what family does, and things will go back to more or less normal.

Well, Winchester-normal, anyway.

They just need to find Cas first.

Kevin looks up from the tablet and thinks for a moment.

"We have any Sprite?" he asks. Dean nods and glances at Sam. Sam looks down, an unhappy twist to his mouth.

"Water, please," Sam says.

Dean nods his head once, sharply, then heads out of the library.

It's several long, long minutes before he heads back. He's misses no calls or texts and has no voicemails.

He checks anyway.

* * *

 

Dinner had been a mistake.

Cas and Jordan had stopped off at a public family/companion toilet for a quick wash before continuing on to the restaurant. It was little more than a rinse and a second pass with deodorant; necessary in between proper showers to keep a modicum of cleanliness.

Cas had gone first. He'd washed everything from the waist up, feeling oddly lethargic and too tired to give himself a more thorough cleaning. Afterwards, he'd thrown on a clean T-shirt from his bag, making a mental note that he'd need to wash his clothing soon. Cas had finger-combed his hair and tried not to look too hard at the tired, dirty human in the mirror.

He'd been in and out in five minutes. Jordan took a little longer, but Cas hadn't minded the wait. It gave him the chance to sit for a moment and just breathe.  
  


Their reception at the restaurant had been... less than pleasant. The hostess had all but glared at them and her clipped 'can we help you?' had been rather unwelcoming. Jordan had smiled coolly and asked politely for a table for two.

Another lady had offered to take them in her section. The hostess had stared at them a moment longer, then acquiesced.  
  


At least their waitress was kind, Cas had mused. The other patrons were less so. Some stared openly, with disgust or pity, and Cas couldn't decide which he liked less.

On Jordan's recommendation, seconded by their waitress, Cas had ordered the chicken quesadillas. They had smelled appetizing enough when they'd arrived at the table and Castiel had dug in despite still not feeling hungry.  
  


He'd managed two bites before his stomach protested. Jordan had watched him over his burger, concerned, but Cas hadn't been able to do more than pick at the quesadillas and most of the dish had ended up boxed to go.

Castiel's head hurt, like it had in the early days before he'd gotten used to his need for water, but sipping at his drink only seemed to make the nausea worse. 

It didn't help with his exhaustion, either, the fatigue that made him wish he could simply curl up in his chair and fall asleep.

Come to think, Cas had been tired all day. More so than usual, though he'd had just as much success with sleep as he'd had every night since he Fell. The nightmares had been no more terrible than was typical.  
  


Jordan had paid and they'd left. Their walk back to their bridge had turned into more of a jog when it started to rain; just lightly at first, but with the thunder rumbling in the distance it promised to get worse in short order.

Jordan is been barely winded by the light jog, whereas Cas is completely out of breath. He's doubled over, leaning against one of the pillars that supports the bridge, and tries to breathe. His head pounds. His every breath feels like a sharp, stabbing knife in his lungs.  
  


"Johnny?"

Cas can't answer him. He's coughing, sudden and fierce, and Jordan comes to stand next to him and put a comforting, worried hand on his back.  
  


"Shit, are you sick?"

"I-" Cas starts, but he's coughing again, wet and painful. Jordan pulls him away from the wall and Cas stumbles, almost falling flat on his face were it not for Jordan's hand on his shoulder.

"Go lie down, I'm gonna see if I have any of that cough medicine from last year," Jordan says, gently pushing Cas towards his bed. Cas nods, wincing at the pounding of his head, and makes his way to the stack of cardboard that has been his 'bed' for two weeks.  
  


He's shivering, he notes distantly. He doesn't feel cold, though. On the contrary, he feels rather warm.

He closes his eyes and listens to the sound of the rain and Jordan digging through his backpack. There's a quiet noise of triumph, and then Jordan is back with a bottle of generic cough syrup.  
  


"Lost the measuring cup cap thing ages ago, but here," he says, opening up the bottle with a quick turn of his wrist. "Sit up."

Cas does. His chest feels that stabbing pain again, sharp and fierce, and he ignores it in favor of taking the bottle from Jordan.  
  


"Thank you," Cas says. He blinks at the bottle, trying to read the tiny print on it. "How much do I-"

"Just a mouthful, a little less," Jordan says. Cas nods and brings the bottle to his lips.  
  


It tastes  _terrible_.

Cas swallows and grimaces and Jordan chuckles as he takes the bottle back from Cas.  
  


"Not a fan of grape, Johnny?" he asks, wiping the neck of the bottle clean before replacing the cap.

"That was  _not_ -" Cas starts, but then he's coughing again. He can taste the medicine again on his tongue, and his stomach threatens to bring the rest of it up.

Jordan puts a hand on his shoulder and gently pushes him back. Cas groans in protest as his body complains about the motion.

"Lie down. You'll feel better," Jordan says reassuringly. He frowns, though, and puts a hand to Cas's forehead. "You've got a bit of a fever, though. Should clear up by morning if you rest?"

Jordan sounds hesitant, unsure, but Cas doesn't call him on it. He nods and lies down, curling up on his side in case he starts coughing again. He can feel it tickling the back of his throat.

"Thank you, Jordan," Cas says. Exhaustion makes his eyelids heavy and he shivers. He closes his eyes.

"'Night, Johnny," Jordan says. Cas can hear him moving, then settling into his bed, and it's as if all noises are distant. Even the sound of the occasional car is dull.

He coughs again and curls tighter on himself, coughing and trying to do it as quietly as possible so he doesn't disturb Jordan. The medicine will kick in soon, and then he'll stop coughing. He will stop feeling like there's something thick and heavy settled into his chest cavity, different than the weight of his heart and all the guilt he carries.

He shivers again and passes out.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: very sick character in this chapter.

Jordan awakes to the sound of coughing. He pushes himself up, groaning and rubbing at his eyes.

"You ok?" he calls to Johnny, glancing over. Johnny is curled up on his side, facing away from Jordan. His coughs are powerful, shaking his whole body with wet, harsh sounds. Jordan feels a frission of worry.

"Johnny?" he says, getting up and walking quickly to Johnny's bedside. Jordan kneels and puts a hand on Johnny's shoulder. Johnny startles, jerking away from the touch and whirling to face Jordan.

Jordan holds up his hand, placating.

"Just me," he says, worriedly noting how sick Johnny looks. His face is pale and drawn save two spots of color on his cheeks, eyes glazed over with fever. He's sweating, hair matted down, but shivering, and that cough...

Johnny blinks slowly and seems to relax.

"Jordan," he croaks. He puts a hand to his head as though dizzy. "I... don't feel well."

"You don't look it, either," Jordan quips automatically. He slowly reaches out to press the back of his hand against Johnny's forehead. It's hot, too hot, and Jordan feels his worry ratchet up another notch.

Johnny sways. He coughs again, and it's as wet and gross close up as it had sounded from farther away. He coughs again, and again, and Jordan's worry skyrockets when Johnny doubles over, face turning red as he coughs again and again and _again_.

Jordan pats Johnny's back gently, trying to make soothing, nonsense sounds as his mind races. This isn't your run-of-the-mill cold. Whatever it is, it's much worse.

Johnny collapses back. He looks exhausted. His chest heaves with every breath, like he can't get enough air.

"You ok?" Jordan asks weakly. He knows it's a stupid question; he can see the answer is 'like shit', but he doesn't know what to do.

Johnny's eyes refocus on him. Jordan doesn't like how glazed they've gotten, or that Johnny is apparently having trouble focusing.

"Is it... always like this?" Johnny asks, voice heavy. Jordan's eyebrows furrow.

"Being sick?" he asks slowly. Johnny nods, then winces and shuts his eyes.

"I've never... been sick before," he says, almost wonderingly. "I've been _tired_ before, but never..." His voice trails off. He breathes, low and shuddering. "Weak. I've been weak before. I hated it then, too."

Johnny's voice is resigned, helpless. Jordan feels suddenly chilled and he shivers.

"We need to get you to a hospital," Jordan says, gentle but firm.

For a moment, Johnny's alertness returns to him. He sits back up abruptly and clutches at Jordan's shoulder with one hand. Jordan is stunned into stillness, staring wide-eyed at Johnny's panicked expression.

"No hospitals. I can't- Please," Johnny says. Jordan nods slowly. He leans away from Johnny and pats his hand comfortingly as Johnny relaxes and lets go.

"No hospitals, got it," Jordan says. Johnny nods. His eyes are already starting to glaze over again. He puts a hand to his face.

"The rooms are so... white," he says, rubbing at one of his eyes. "Just like _that_ room. They'll find me there, and I can't let-" He stops. Shakes his head. "They already found me."

Johnny's shoulders slump. He doesn't speak again, though Jordan waits with unease creeping up his spine.

"Who?" Jordan asks, half cautious and half curious. He swallows. "Dean?"

Johnny's head jerks back up, eyes wide and _terrified_ for a second. Jordan very nearly jumps back in alarm, but then Johnny visibly calms. He shakes his head.

"They didn't get Dean," he says. His expression clouds over. "They didn't- _I_ didn't. Dean's safe."

The thought seems to bring him some measure of peace. Whatever burst of energy he had now depleted, Johnny settles his back against his pallet once more. He coughs as he lowers himself down.

Jordan cautiously reaches out and puts his hand to Johnny's forehead once more. Johnny groans softly as Jordan's hand touches his skin. Might just be Jordan's imagination, but he could swear that Johnny's forehead feels hotter than it did before.

"We could probably fry an egg on your face right now," Jordan says, trying for levity and failing miserably. He is not nearly equipped to handle this. "And I don't like the sound of your cough."

Or the fever. Or the way Johnny's every breath seems to rattle in his lungs.

"Is that common?" Johnny asks. He sounds concerned and Jordan stares at him for a moment, uncomprehending. Then he laughs and shakes his head.

"Figure of speech," he explains. He takes a deep breath and bites his lower lip. Johnny nods absently, though it looks like his moment of lucidity is on the way out.

"Is there anyone I can call?" Jordan asks gently. "Family? Friends?"

Johnny had been tight-lipped about his life before the streets, but there had to be _someone_. Jordan still wasn't entirely sure if Johnny had been kicked out or if he'd left, but either way circumstances had changed. _Someone_ was going to have to swallow their pride, be it Johnny or whoever had turned him out of doors.

"All my friends are dead," Johnny says bleakly. He stares up at the sky, unseeing. "I have no family." His face screws up in something unnameably painful.

Jordan swallows thickly.

"What about Dean?" he asks. He has no idea what Dean was - is? - to Cas, but whoever he was _mattered_. If Johnny meant half as much to Dean as Dean obviously meant to Johnny, Jordan would bet his last dollar that Dean wouldn't let Cas die out here.

Johnny shakes his head and rolls onto his side.

"I can't," he mumbles. Jordan scowls.

"Why not?" he says. "You won't let me take you to the hospital. You don't want me to call anyone. Johnny..." Jordan takes a deep breath, trying not to shake. "I can't- I don't have the medicine you need. I can't take care of you."

Johnny doesn't move.

"Perhaps that would be best," he says. He sounds so exhausted, so weary, and Jordan digs his fingernails into his palms to resist the urge to _shake_ him. It wouldn't help.

Instead, he takes a deep breath.

"Fine," he says, words clipped. "Don't go anywhere, ok?"

He leans over Johnny and claps an almost-friendly hand on his shoulder while his other hand slips, light-fingered, into the large pocket of the ugly coat Johnny wears. Johnny doesn't react, just slumps into his pillow and coughs again.

Jordan stands up and quickly hides Johnny's phone in the pocket of his hoodie. He walks away, determined.

Even if Johnny doesn't want help, he needs it, and Jordan is going to make sure he gets it. There has to be at least one number programmed into his phone that Jordan can call and get help, even if he has to go through the entire fucking contact list.

All he needs now is a charger. 

* * *

 

The library lost & found is as deserted as ever. Jordan tugs his hands through his hair for a moment to make himself look presentable, then adopts his best sheepish but winning expression before turning the corner.

The attendant sits alone at her desk flipping through a magazine, hair pulled back in a sensible bun. At the sound of his footsteps, she looks up and smiles.

"Can I help you?" she asks. Jordan nods and holds up Johnny's phone.

"Anyone turn in a charger lately?" Jordan asks. "I think I left mine here the other day. Micro USB, black?"

The girl chuckles and puts down her magazine.

"People forget those things all the time," she says, leaning over in her chair to mess with something behind the desk. She lifts up a small, open-top cardboard box filled with a mess of chargers and cords. She picks one up, checks the end, and holds it out. "This it?"

Jordan feels a surge of relief. He nods and takes it from her with a grateful smile.

"Thanks, you're a lifesaver," he says with feeling. The girl behind the desk just smiles wryly.

"Glad I could help," she says. "Have a nice day!"

"You too!" Jordan replies, already turning to venture into the library proper. It's early in the day yet, so there aren't many people among the stacks, which suits Jordan just fine. He navigates the Adult Fiction section expertly and finds an outlet in a cozy little back corner. He plugs the phone in immediately and watches as the screen flickers to life.

He hits the 'power' button and waits for the phone to load up. While he waits what seems an incredible amount of time, he tries not to think about how this could all go wrong.

What if the phone is too damaged to work? Johnny had always claimed it was just a dead battery, every time he'd pulled his phone from his pocket and just _stared_ wistfully, but what if there was water damage? What if some wire inside the phone had been jarred loose by street living and it couldn't make calls?

What if none of Johnny's family or friends lived close enough to help? Fuck, if Johnny's family was on the other side of the country-

The phone finishes booting. Jordan takes a deep breath and hits the 'contacts' button.

It's a rather short list. Jordan's heart sinks. The more names, the more likely it is he'll be able to find someone not only close, but willing to help. At least calling all of Johnny's contacts will be quick, and if it doesn't pan out, he'll go with Plan B.

What that is, he doesn't yet know.

The first name on the list - Bobby - is a bust, number disconnected. Jordan goes to dial the second person on the list and hesitates.

It's 'Dean'.

Jordan's a little nervous to call him. He's not sure what he'll say if Dean picks up, or what kind of voicemail he'd leave if it came to that. He's not sure what _Dean_ might say, and that's almost a bigger problem.

Still, with only three names in Johnny's contacts, and one of those already disconnected, Jordan doesn't have a choice. He steels himself and hits 'call'. He brings the phone to his ear and listens as the phone dials. He hears it ring once, twi-

Halfway through the second ring, the phone's picked up. Jordan's breath catches.

"Cas?"

The voice on the other side is deep and rough, almost breathless. But that's not the right name.

"Cas?"

The man on the other side of the call sounds anxious now, impatient. Jordan shakes himself. Might be some kind of caller ID error. Might be the name Johnny went by before. It doesn't matter.

"Is this Dean?" he asks. There's silence.

"Who the fuck are you and why do you have that phone." It's not a question. Jordan is shocked by the steel in the man's voice, chilly and _angry_. What the hell kind of friends did Johnny _have_?

"I'm a friend of Johnny's," Jordan says. "He's-"

"I don't know a 'Johnny'. That's my friend Cas's phone. What I want to know is where the hell you found it." Dean's voice is clipped and brooks no argument. Jordan starts to wonder if calling him was a bad idea.

Whatever he'd expected from the look in Johnny's eyes whenever 'Dean' was brought up, this wasn't it. Fuck, maybe Johnny had run off to escape this guy and here Jordan was, basically ready to gift-wrap him and ship him back.

"I think I have the wrong number," he lies, ready to hang up.

"Please." Dean croaks, voice suddenly contrite. _Scared_ , Jordan thinks. "Don't hang up, just tell me where you found the phone."

Jordan hesitates.

"Please."

That's definitely some kind of emotion in Dean's voice. Worry, it sounds like. Jordan remembers Johnny's wistful expressions every time he'd stared at the phone, the relief in his eyes when he'd said 'Dean is safe'.

Most of all, Jordan remembers Johnny curled in on himself, coughing so hard he couldn't breathe.

"You'd have to ask my friend," he says slowly. "He told me the phone was his, and he's had it since I found him."

"'Found him'...?" Dean echoes. He breathes in sharply. "Tall guy, dark hair, stubble, blue eyes? Always real serious? Trenchcoat- wait, he might not... fuck."

"He told me his name was Johnny," Jordan says, feeling some measure of relief. "He's still got the trenchcoat."

Dean lets out a sigh of relief that seems to come from the depths of his soul. Jordan relaxes. If Dean thought the phone had been stolen, no wonder he'd been pissed. Especially since Johnny - or Jordan supposes it's 'Cas'? - had been missing.

"Wait, why are you calling?" Dean clears his throat. "Where's the a- where is he?"

Jordan feels his momentary peace slip away.

"He's sick," he says. "Like, really sick. He won't go to a hospital, and I..." His voice trails off.

There's silence on the other side. Jordan presses on desperately.

"He doesn't know I'm calling, but he's coughing a lot and he's got an awful fever," Jordan says.

"He didn't tell you to call me?" Dean asks, voice soft and hesitant. Hurt, Jordan thinks. He bites his lower lip.

"He told me not to call, actually," he admits softly.

"That stupid _sonofabitch_ ," Dean growls, but he sounds pained rather than angry. He breathes in, sharp and short. "Where are you? I'll come get him."

"Denver," Jordan tells him. "Colorado. I can meet you at the corner of Grand and 5th."

"I'll be there in six hours," Dean says. He pauses a moment, then speaks again. "How is he?"

Jordan hesitates. He gnaws a little on his lower lip.

"Pretty terrible," he says finally. "He coughs so bad sometimes he can't breathe. He was really out of it when I left to call you, and I'm not sure if that's the fever, or..."

Dean lets out a muffled curse.

"Make that five hours. I'll be the guy in the black Impala." Dean takes another deep breath. When he speaks again, it's like the words are being pulled from him, reluctant but heartfelt. "Just... take care of him until I get there, yeah? Whatever he needs, I'll pay you back."

"I will," Jordan promises. There's momentary silence on the other line, then a very quiet, sincere 'thank you'.

The line disconnects.

**Author's Note:**

> Writing this in part because I could not get the idea out of my head for two years, and also because I am currently participating in the Random Acts Dreams2Acts fundraiser!
> 
> If you like this fic and would like to support my campaign so I can pay forward the impact Misha's had on my life, please consider donating! I'll be writing this fic regardless, but if you could spread the word it would be a huge help.
> 
> My tumblr post on the topic is here: http://bookkbaby.tumblr.com/post/117201460385/dreams2acts-please-read-misha-collins-is-the
> 
> My CrowdRise page is here: https://www.crowdrise.com/d2a-nicaragua2015/fundraiser/stephaniecharvat
> 
>  
> 
> Come say hello on tumblr!


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